Emerging media from the borderlands of Jewish identity

Aga 2

Tagging along with Aga was another young woman whose husband was also aboard Kolchak’s train. . . .

Snippets of the story:

A little boat ferried people across the river at Irkutsk. As Aga stepped from the boat clutching a freshly-bought sausage, a man offered to help with her package. She passed it to him—and off he ran. From then on in Irkutsk, she carried in her hand, fiercely swinging it, a pistol.

Aga’s father had left Omsk ahead of Aga and her mother, brother and sister, who had traveled together. . . .

A few days after leaving her family (who continued on to Manchuria), Aga was making her way through the huge, panicked crowds wrapping the Irkutsk train station. Suddenly, through thick layers of faces, she saw her father. They shouted each other’s names across the sea of people and through the roar of bustle and steam-engines. They struggled to get closer, pushing against the resilience of the mixing currents of the crowd’s movement—and stretching out their hands, her father passed her money. As she grasped it, they were parted by the throng. The next time she saw him was in Harbin, a few months later.

Aga begged Czech officers upon her knees to spare her husband’s life. They would dismiss her—they were probably confronted hour after hour by crying wives. One officer, however, took pity on Aga, an alone and pregnant teenager. He told her lightly to come back later. When she did, the officer summoned his footman, telling her to go with him, he would help.

It was night, very dark, when they reached the site of Kolchak’s train. There were many trains, endlessly, one after another. Aga was told to wait in the dark, by the wheels of a train. The footman walked ahead, and in the distance she saw his dark figure climbing the steps of another train. A few moments later he reappeared. By his side was Kuka.

The details here are unclear . . . but Kuka made his way to his waiting wife, and they again were together in the silence of wartime. But far away down the row of cars, a wail cut the air: Aga’s companion had followed her, and seeing that Kuka was saved, and that her husband was still on the train, so close to where they stood, she was tearing her hair, howling. Kuka told Aga they couldn’t help her, they must flee while they could. Kuka was the only one on the train to survive.

It was spring and the river ice was breaking. The rivers in Siberia are wide, and to cross Aga and Kuka were forced to jump from ice to ice. Aga was already very pregnant as Leonard was born in July.

On the train (to Harbin) Aga’s clothes were thin, and she was shivering in the ice-cold. A woman in furs watched her disdainfully; finally she threw Aga one of her coats, “What kind of a jacket do you have? Take this!” Aga was extremely grateful.

In Manchuria, aboard a new train, they explained to the Chinese conductor they had no tickets. The conductor instructed them to wait in the bathroom when he collected tickets; they could come out later. Later, the conductor brought them a mandarin orange—for a long time, they hadn’t eaten. When Aga retold this, tears would come, the orange they split, his kindness, meant so much.

When they got off the train in Manchuria, Chinese tailors greeted the Russian passengers, telling them they would be unable to find jobs in their ragged clothes. They would tailor a clean suit and upon finding a job, pay then. Some Russians returned to pay, some didn’t.

I am now not so surprised at the power of Leonard’s personality: before I hadn’t connected his fierceness and strength to Aga’s. In her Harbin pictures, her expression never changes: a stern, guarded stare. Leonard’s, even as a young boy, is very similar (though in this photograph it’s hard to tell). In coming to America, Aga allowed herself to become jolly, roughhousing with her grandsons and emanating Leonard’s vivaciousness.

Aga's father

Aga’s father, my great-great-grandfather, is spectacular. He is a direct image of Leonard’s tartar side, a tough, fiery-faced, forthright Russian. Aga’s brothers, Peter and Anatole, bear a strong resemblance to Leonard as well, though more delicate—as Leonard was as a young man.

Now that, in my own mind, I have connected Leonard’s roots, I feel somehow relieved—that he was not alone in his ways; that he did not stick out awkwardly as one whose inherited traits are given rare emphasis, and whose traits are muted in his sons and descending family. It was a subtle and reasonable incline of intensity, transferred from one generation to the next, blending with and sharing traits from another side and another kind of person. Leonard is not alone, to be washed out after life.

HALF-REMEMBERED STORIES

In July 2010, we will be rolling out a multi-media exhibition about lost people, lost places, and the quest to reclaim lost memory. In preparation for this exhibit, we've invited 16 young Jews, ages 15 to 25, to blog.